


And your quaint honour turns to dust.

by timepatty



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Happy Ending, Latin, M/M, Mentions of past child abuse, Pining, Roman!AU, exam procrastination 2013, garden is really not a euphemism for anything I swear, in which Enjolras is a wealthy Patronus and Grantaire is his favourite clinens, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timepatty/pseuds/timepatty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a wealthy patronus. Grantraire is his new clines. Roman!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	And your quaint honour turns to dust.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: 13/9/13 Updated and fixed many mistakes. 
> 
> So this is what I call "studying for classics". There's a list of the translations for the Latin words at the end. 
> 
> Also, I an not quite sure how the Roman patron/client thing works, so I am making it up, or rather basing it on the sixteenth century system. 
> 
> Also, title is taken from "his coy mistress" by Andrew Marvell
> 
> Also: IGNORE ALL HISTORY. Really. I'm doing an architecture paper. The layout of the house is right, the interior of the baths are right. But the time frame for when this is set is wibbly-wobbly. At best.
> 
> But Nero did actually marry a couple of men at different times. And he was the bride at least once. (And it was considered less scandalous than some of his performances. Ah, Nero.)

Grantaire turned to face the crisp white exterior of the house. Dull white washed walls faced him from his position on the dusty road. A rich terracotta roof stared down at him for its position, perched atop of the featureless plaster.

He approached the entrance, nodding to a slave, who let him into the house, through the narrow hallway that was the _fauces._ He gulped a little as the _atrium_ opened up before him - the light coming in through the _complunvium_ in the roof was blinding. Gleaming floor tiles and elaborately painted walls refracted the sunlight. Grantaire ran his hand quickly through his messy black curls, grimacing when they caught on his wide fingers. He’d been on the road from Herculaneum to Pompeii for most of the day. He resolutely tried not to think about the dust that was coating his tunic and sandals, and probably a good portion of the floor he’s just walked on.

The slave assured him that Enjolras, who would hopefully be his _patronus,_ his patron, was going to be at home, despite the custom of bathing. It was unusual not to appear in the building, exercising or general soliciting, but perhaps, he thought, gazing around what he could see of the fine _domus_ , he had his own bathing quarters here. A painting caught his eye, depicting a familiar scene of Ganymede, a young boy taken by Zeus for his beauty, carried off by a giant eagle. Grantaire smiled at the comical scene. Immediately beside it was a man crying over a deer, whilst a man looked on sadly. Hyacinth, Grantaire thought, not a bit sadly. Flowers bloomed at their feet, foreshadowing the metamorphosis that was to occur shortly.

The sound of someone clearing their throat echoed through the large reception area. Grantaire swivelled around to glance at the source of the noise, and his breath caught sharply in his throat.

The man he saw was magnificent. Wrapped in a pristine white toga, he radiated power. Grantaire swallowed hard and stomped down on the urge to bow to this man.

“You…” he broke off and cleared his throat.  “You are Enjolras, I presume?”

The man looked at him wearily, but not wholly unkindly. He had a mop of blonde curls and a suspicious absence of a beard, even though his face told that he was old enough to have one. Perhaps a servant got clumsy with a trim, thought Grantaire, or maybe he caught it on a lamp. His piercing blue eyes scanned Grantaire, and his soft lips that were set in a hard line.

 “I am.” Enjolras started. “What do you want?”

Grantaire chewed his lip nervously. To be honest he hadn’t really thought he’d make it this far. Many times he had predicted a lion would escape from an amphitheatre and eat him up, or a rouge horse from a _circus_ trampling him to death before making it this far.  

“I come seeking a patron, sir. For my family has fallen under much hardship recently. We lost most of the household in the plague, and almost all of the family coffers were emptied on sarcophagi, which are not exactly cheap, as you probably know.   
  
“Why me?” The man looked curious.

“Um.” Grantaire fought down a blush in what he suspected was a losing battle. “Well, you see, a few months ago I had a dream --”

“A dream?” Enjolras raised an eyebrow sceptically.

“Yes. A dream where I lost my family to a horrible plague. I fell into darkness soon after - it felt like I was drowning in the most horrible way, or had fallen into a fast flowing aqueduct. When I emerged I was standing on top of a mountain, and this woman was staring at me while steam billowed out of a fissure in a rock behind her. She walked over to me and said that I was looking for Apollo, and that I’d find him where a winged lion caught silver fish. So the next morning I asked around. They thought I was crazy, of course, but I found myself somehow in a symposium full of painters, and brought it up there, rather drunkenly. One of them, an old man named Jehan said that he knew a man who had painted something similar in the house of Enjolras about five years ago, in Pompeii. So when my family died of plague, I saw them buried, rented out as much of the house that I could, and here I am.”

“Yes. But what do you want?”  
  
Grantaire had to bite on his lip at that. _Nothing really, until I saw you, and now I want everything,_ was the truthful answer but one look at the disdainful brow was enough to discourage that idea. It wasn’t that it was _uncommon_ for men to ‘partake’ in each other, nor was it wholly unusual for them to marry (Emperor Nero did it several times), but not for two men both of their standing. And he had an inkling his advances may not be welcome.

Although, that being said, Grantaire wasn’t exactly much more than a slave, and becoming a _puer_ for Enjolras, did seem… appealing. He imagined unravelling the toga which sat across pale skin, pooling around them. Firm hands, slightly stained with ink, one holding him down, the other…

A small cough caught his attention - was he blushing again? Grantaire realised that he hadn’t answered the question. He swiftly lowered his eyes and spoke.

“If you will, I would ask for patronage. For you see, I am a painter. I have painted many things on many walls. I have scrolls of reference, if you need them. I just need enough of an income so that I can set myself up to regain some money, in order to take my place back in my household.”

“Okay… and what do I get in return?” Enjolras raised an eyebrow, which had somehow managed to lower itself while he was talking - did those things have a mind of their own? Grantaire’s blush unwillingly intensified.

“You will have… my support, politically. It will be worth more when I am wealthier. My family has standing in Herculaneum.”

Enjolras let out a low chuckle. “And do you know what my politics are?”

That… was a good point. But there was no chance that Grantaire wasn’t going to follow this man to the ends of the earth. “I do not. But a man such as you would be one worth standing with, regardless.”

Enjolras gave a small, humourless, chuckle and raised his chin. His hair caught the light steaming in from above, giving him a godlike appearance. “I want nothing less than equality of the people.”

Grantaire made a shocked noise. “what?... How?”

“Emperor Nero is far too big for his sandals. Did you hear about his plans to build a place right in the middle of Rome? Which has _conveniently_ just burnt down?”

“Don’t you think that’s a little bit… extreme? Nero’s the number one financer of the relief fund. He’s rebuilding the parts of Rome which most people could afford to rebuild.”  
  
“It’s a distraction. Obviously. He doesn’t want us to see what he’s doing.”

“But he’s the emperor. Doesn’t that mean he can build a giant palace if he wants to?”

“But it’s land that belongs to the Romans. And because he’s the emperor, does it mean that he’s right?”

“Well, no. Of course not. But it means that we can’t do much about it. Besides, it doesn’t affect us.”

Enjolras seemed lost for words for a minute.

“Doesn’t affect us? This is an important situation that affects all of the empire! We need to stop this pointless construction before it’s too late!”

Dear Jupiter, the man looked splendid when he was worked up.

“So?” Enjolras was looking at him expectantly again. Something that was almost a sneer played around his lips. It did not reach his eyes and Grantaire wondered how much of it was self-defence, pushing him away before he left.

“So what?”

“So after hearing my politics that you very obviously do not agree with, do you still desire to be my client?”

Grantaire didn’t hesitate for a second before affirming his desire to remain.

“Good.” Enjolras nodded, hiding his surprise. “I can pay for board at the _balnea,_ the small bathing house,or I have a room, a _cubicula,_ free if that’s too loud for you.”

“The cubicula would be more than generous of you.”

“Then it’s agreed.” Enjolras gave a professional nod. You can take the one on the top left. Top right is my own, the bottom left is my slave’s, and the bottom right is currently empty. If you need a business room, feel free to take a _tabernae,_ it’s what they’re there for _._ ”

Enjolras held out a hand for him to shake. Overwhelmed, Grantaire took a minute to study the hand, shaking it and getting distracted by the short, well-polished nails that sat on each finger. On impulse, Grantaire bent down and quickly pressed his lips to the ring on Enjolras’ finger. He thought he heard the blonde man swallow, but when he straightened himself up, there was nothing but professionalism on his face. He reached into a nearby pot, and pulled out (of all things) a handful of small coins.

“Take these. If you want, you can go to the baths. If you take the street south, it should lead you onto the _decumanus_ , the main road. From there you can travel west to the forum; the baths are on the corner.”

Grantaire nodded. “Thank you. I shall go shortly.” Then on an impulse. “Will you join me?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No. I’m going to be holed up in the _tablinum_ for most of the day, attending buisness. I might not even see you at dusk in the _triclinum_ for dinner, I’m afraid.

Grantaire resolutely fought down the image of feeding a reclining Enjolras grapes. It was a difficult (and fruitless) endeavour.

“Okay.” There was an awkward pause. “I’ll see you later then, I guess?”

Enjolras let loose a tiny, soft, smile. “Yes. At some point, I expect so.” He turned and walked out of the atrium, the material of his toga barely moving, giving credit to its quality.

 

~

 

Bathing after a long journey realty was the best thing, Grantaire decided. He sat in the steam room and felt himself relax as he listened to the muffled sounds of many people conversing in one large place.

He almost didn’t notice when a dark haired man joined him. He looked up and caught the stranger’s eye, who nodded and smiled at him.  
  
“I haven’t seen you around before” the stranger offered.  
  
“Just arrived actually.” Grantaire replied.

“Staying long? Are you lodging here?”

“No, I’m with a new patron, actually. He was nice enough to lend me a spare room.”

The man tilted his head curiously. “I’m sorry, do you mind if I ask who?”

It was a little odd, but Grantaire complied. The man’s face lit up with glee.

“Oh! I thought so! Not many would do such a thing these days. My name’s Coufeyrac, by the way, I’m a friend of Enjolras.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Grantaire.” They briefly clasped forearms.

“Jehan’s friend?”

“How did you know?” he asked, nonplussed.

Courfeyrac waved his hand lazily “he mentioned about someone called Grantaire coming on the road from Herculaneum looking for a painting.”

“Were you the one who did it?”

“Not me. But I know the one you’re talking about.” He lent forward conspiratorially. “The thing is, how do you know where it was? It’s not exactly open to public view.”

“Why, where is it? And you probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me. And it’s on the outside wall of his house, facing the garden.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened.  In many ways the garden of a house was a lot more private than the bedroom. Houses were places of business, after all, and business could occur anywhere in the house; the more ‘intimate’ a room, the more favourable was your standing. But the garden was a private palace, a retreat from everything. Only a very select few were ever invited into such a place. 

Grantaire told him about the dream. Courfeyrac looked sympathetic at his plight.

“I lost a few, my sister and father, many cousins.  Enjolras was burying his own on the same day. He lost everyone. That’s how I ended up meeting him.”

He supposed that helped explain why he was so generous to him.

Courfeyrac let out a small laugh. “Did he tell you of his grand political scheme?”

Grantaire let out a tiny laugh too. “Yeah. Do you really think that Nero burnt down his own city to build a palace?”

Courfeyrac’s face turned a little. “I don’t know.” He started, seriously, “but I don’t think he’s a good emperor and many would agree with me. He’s wasteful, flamboyant, and focuses too much on his own dramatics than on the empire.”

“You may have a point there. I made a mistake of watching a rendition of his last performance. The fact that it was an accurate portrayal, and not a satire, almost made me weep. Thankfully I was able to bury myself in pool of wine to drown out the wailing onstage.”

His new friend barked out a laugh at that. “An excellent remedy. And also an excellent idea of what we should go do now.”

Grantaire smiled fully at the man. “I agree. Shall we?”

They exited the sweating room and dove quickly into the tepid waters of the _tepidarium,_ followed by a quick dive into the hot waters of the _caldarium_ and a final dip into the freezing waters of the _frigidarium._ They quickly dried off and redressed, Grantaire having borrowed fresh clothing from the slave, although judging by the quality, he suspected that these might happen to belong to Enjolras. Nevertheless they made their way to a local tavern.

Grantaire and Courfeyrac stumbled into the house a little before midnight, rather drunk. They were both laughing as the local man lead them to, and into the house. Grantaire wasn’t quite sure if he could have made it back alone, all things considered. Thankfully, as Courfeyrac was explaining, perhaps a little too loudly, that the door of Enjolras’ house was hardly ever locked, because the man was usually awake at all hours, and had powerful friends.

“Like you?” teased Grantaire,” you can barely hold your wine! Call yourself a Pompeian?”

“Ah, my friend, if the ability to hold one’s wine came decided who was and was not from Pompeii, I would say that you, and all your ancestors were born here.”  
  
They both found this inextricably funny and laughed loudly. Courfeyrac slung his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders to lead him into the atrium.

“Which one is yours again?”

“Ummmm top right? No. Top left maybe? Or is that Enjolras’?”

“I said which one was yours, not which one you’d like to be in!” Courfeyrac was far too pleased with himself over that, he decided. Even as he just about fell over laughing.

“Top left is yours.” Came a distinctly unamused and longsuffering voice. “Courfeyrac, why am I not surprised to find you here?”

“I’m just welcoming our new buddy to town, Enjolras. Giving him a proper welcome. He’s pretty great.” Courfeyrac leant over and gave Grantaire a smacking kiss on the cheek, causing the other man to blush and push him away, fluttering his eye-lashes dramatically.

“And speaking of Nero-“ what Courfeyrac was about to say was lost in the laugher of the two men. Enjolras let out an exasperated sigh.

“Well, I’m guessing you’re staying the night then. It wouldn’t be proper to let you walk home in this; who knows what will happen. Grantaire.” He looked at him. “We’ll be discussing this in the morning. I think I left a few things out of our agreement.”

“Aw, don’t be hard on him, Enjolras. It’s my fault. He’s your guest, not your slave.”

“I know that. And as my guest it’s my duty to see him safe and healthy, not dead in a ditch somewhere from excess.”

“But all the physicians say that wine’s good for you! They’re rationing it to the slaves now.”

“Joly does not agree” Enjolras replied with feigned impatience. “And you’ll be agreeing with me in the morning.”

“Yes Enjolras.” He replied meekly. He turned to Grantaire. “Night then. This has been great.” He moved towards a room, making Enjolras tug him over to the right one.

“Knew you cared.”

“Whatever. Goodnight.”

Finally it was just Grantaire and Enjolras alone in the atrium. The polished walls reflected the dim moonlight and the lamps burning in the _tablinum_ in the other end of the house. Grantaire suddenly wished he wasn’t drunk. It stuck him that he may not have made the best impression on his new patron. It was bound to have happened sometime, he supposed.

Enjolras started at his new client and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He tried to ignore the flush to the man’s cheeks and how fetching it looked. When Grantaire didn’t move he gently took him by the upper arm and led him into the bed chamber. He slipped off the man’s tunic and let it fall, averting his eyes as he did so. Usually he wasn’t so… maidenly with the naked form, but it felt like an invasion of privacy to see the man naked without his permission. Grantaire gave a small exhale and allowed himself to be guided onto the bed. Just as sleep was about to take him, he murmured a quiet “thank you, Apollo”.

 

~

 

The next morning Grantaire woke with a slight headache, and a nauseated feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with the wine last night. He had thoroughly enjoyed spending time with Courfeyrac. The two had plenty to talk about, and the man had a winning sense of humour. But Grantaire also remembered Enjolras’ look when they came in drunk, and the way that his hands felt when they brushed his skin whilst sliding off his tunic. He felt shamed at his actions, at Enjolras’ disapproval. He had hardly spent an hour in the man’s presence and it seemed like Cupid had stuck him hard. He groaned and rolled over onto his belly, ignoring the sensations in his body that his mind had produced. Instead he dressed and went looking for breakfast.

To his surprise, Enjolras was waiting for him in the dining room, the _triclinium_ , relaxing on one of the sofas in a fine linen tunic that reached his ankles. Evidently he had no outdoor plans for today. Maybe that was why his skin was such a pale gold? Grantaire wondered. Enjolras with his golden hair and diminutive nose didn’t look typically Roman, unlike Grantaire’s tanned skin and dark hair, but it wasn’t uncommon to see variations, with Rome being a big as it was. Enjolras was obviously a citizen, at any rate, so it wasn’t like it mattered. Grantaire certainly didn’t mind.

He gently cleared his throat as he entered and the man looked up at him from the couch. He bit his lip and gestured at the one closest to his head. As if called, the slave come in, bearing a small platter of fruit and a large cup of water for Grantaire, who sat down gingerly and started picking through the food.

Enjolras bit his lip and started to speak. His voice was soft but professional. “I’m sorry for my behaviour yesterday. It was inappropriate to treat you like little more than a slave.”

Grantaire waved his concerns away. “it’s okay.” He hesitated slightly before continuing. “I used to get that a lot before I came here, from close family friends. When the plague… when my family… I couldn’t take it. I drowned myself in wine almost every night for two weeks before Jehan sent me out here. He said I was wasting my life when it had been spared by the gods… I didn’t react nicely to that.” He looked away, shame-faced.  “I was angry, but he was right. I figured even if the dream was stupid and I was making it all up, or you turned me down, then it would still do me good to get on the road for a while. Maybe even go to Rome somehow. But you were right to treat me like a slave.” He looked down at his borrowed tunic. “Right now I have nothing but the house my family lived in, and only just enough income to keep it, but not live in it. I’ve sold everything of value and used it for wine. So yes. I am basically a slave, despite my birth, and maybe I should be treated as such.”

He felt a pair of hands on his face, tilting it up. Enjolras looked him square in the face and his eyes were full of concern.

“Grantaire, you are worth more than a slave, okay? You’ve fallen on hard times, and you fell to drink. You’re not the first.” He looked the way that Grantaire felt, like festering wounds were being pulled open. “I really am sorry for how I acted. You see… my father was a drunkard, before he died. He used to come in at late hours and… it wasn’t pretty. He killed my mother, before the drink got him. That’s why my reaction was so strong. Forgive me for being a bad host.”

It was Grantaire’s turn to gently turn Enjolras’ face towards him. “I still don’t think you need forgiveness, but you have it. You’ve been more than kind to me, even though you don’t know me that well. I trust you.” He lent forward and kissed him on the cheek, much like he used to do with his father as a young boy when he had gotten into trouble. Enjolras’ lips twitched at the corners and some of the tension dissipated from the room. After a few moments of comfortable silence the blond stood up.

“I’m going to go into the office and study for a bit. You should finish your breakfast and then go into the forum to find the seamstress to fit you with some new tunics.” He hesitated once more. “And a toga.”

“What? Are you sure?”  Grantaire pushed his plate away; the strange feeling was back in his stomach again. Toga’s were expensive, and worth a lot even second hand. It was social convention for citizens to wear them outside the house, unless travelling or riding. It was the last thing Grantaire sold, and it felt like giving up his place in society when he did so.

“Yes.” Enjolras replied firmly. “Call it a loan if you wish, but I would like to see you in clothes benefiting your station.  It’s probably not wise to wear it whilst painting; but it will give you a good advantage for the first meeting, at least. Come, you can wear mine for now.”

Enjolras quickly walked off, trusting that Grantaire would follow. There was less room for further arguments this way, he reasoned. He went to the chest where the load of cloth was gently folded and also pulled out a clean, ankle-length tunic, which he threw to the man as he walked in. It wasn’t proper for a man of his stature to be wearing a tunic as short as a slave’s. Enjolras typically did not care for such things, preferring to wear a simple tunic if he could get away with it, but sometimes conventions had to be followed in order to get conference with the right people. He had actually assumed that Grantaire was a slave when he arrived, with his dusty travelling clothes and unkempt hair, but talk of his household belied that. Not that he had sent out notes written on wax tablets to confirm Grantaire’s story or anything.

Looking up from where he had been staring resolutely once more at the toga, Enjolras saw that Grantaire was fully clothed once again, a familiar blush staining the tanned cheeks of the man. Enjolras motioned for the man to raise his right arm, and aligned the middle crease under it. It was usual for a slave to do this, but Enjolras and his friends often dressed each other in the pursuit of speed. It was nearly impossible to put a toga on yourself (not for lack of trying on Enjolras’ part), and half the time he felt that it was all he kept the slave around to do. He deftly arranged the material over the left shoulder, and stood back to admire the results.

Grantaire was… striking in the toga. His not-quite handsome face transformed into something almost noble, like a veristic portrait. His tanned skin contrasted nicely and it brought out his brown eyes. He had a short beard, which might have once been trimmed fashionably, and toned biceps, perhaps from military training. He realised, suddenly, that he had no clue how old Grantaire was. He could have been anywhere from mid-twenties to late thirties, for all his face gave away.

“So… How do I look?” Grantaire hoped that he wasn’t blushing this time. It really wasn’t dignified.

 Something unnameable flickered across Enjolras’ face. “Respectable” he replied.

Grantaire laughed. ”It’s the first time anyone’s called me that”.

“Oh really? What do they usually call you?”

Grantaire found himself giving a small grin “I wouldn’t like to repeat it. Far too improper.”

“Guess I’ll just have to find out some other time, then.”

They both laughed, but didn’t break eye contact. They were both horrible flirts, and not in the good way, but it didn’t seem to matter.  Grantaire hadn’t realised that Enjolras was taller than him. He seemed to have taken a step forward at some point and had to tilt his head up slightly to look him in the eyes. Grantaire swore he could have seen the blue eyes jump down to his mouth and he swallowed at the thought before parting his lips to wet them.

“Sir?” came a voice. They jumped apart like they had been burnt.

“Yes?”

“I have the money you wanted.”

“Thanks. Do you happen to know if the tailor is available?”

“Should be, sir.”

“Good . Thank you again.”

“Anytime, sir. Call me if you need me.”

“Will do.”

The slave left with a far too knowing look for Enjolras’ taste. Still, his entrance gave Enjolras the opportunity to step back. The man had been in his house for _two days._ He knew next to nothing about him.

He gave Grantaire a gentle smile “off you go then. It won’t take long to get there, but the fitting might take a while to do, depending what they have in stock. Feel free to wander around, or go to a library. I’ll be here when you come back, and if you wanted you can have dinner with me, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre? You know Courfeyrac already, of course, but I’d like you to meet Combeferre, too.”

“That sounds brilliant. What did happen to Courfeyrac this morning, anyway?”

“He had a business deal to attend to. He left about half an hour before you came out. And I think he was sorry that he did.”

Grantaire let out a laugh, before smothering it with his hand in defence of his comrade. “Okay, I’ll get going then. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye”.

 

~

Combeferre arrived just before noon, still in his toga. Apparently his meeting had lasted longer than expected. He greeted the man warmly, and invited him into the office, or the dining room, if he preferred.

Combeferre laughed “the office will do just fine, Enjolras. And what’s the matter? It’s been a while since you felt the need to invite me anywhere in your house, yet you’ve fallen back on formalities.”

Enjolras smiled. “Am I really that transparent?” He usually prided himself at his ability to keep his emotions in check, but it was Combeferre, and they had known each other practically since birth.

“Yes, Enjolras. Yes, you are.” Combeferre gave him a knowing smile. “Is this about the new, uh, client?”

“How did you know about that?”

“I ran into Courfeyrac this morning. And I notice you’re not denying it.”

Enjolras exhaled forcefully. He really did need to talk to someone about this. And who better than Combeferre? “I’m… not denying that he’s… interesting.”

“And you’d like to rip his toga off?”

“Combeferre!” Combeferre bit back a smile at his friend’s flushed face.

“But maybe?” He continued.

“What’s brought this on? I’ve never seen you chase after anyone, Enjolras, and considering your father’s… demise, there isn’t even a marriage arranged for you. You could take a concubine, you know.”

“I don’t want a concubine!” replied Enjolras vehemently. “I would not pay someone for sex.”

“So what do you want?” He had pierced into the heart of the problem.

“I--“ Enjolras didn’t have an answer for that. Sure, he _wanted_ the man, but the words _two days_ kept returning to the forefront of his mind. Sure, he knew that Grantaire had a quick wit and a tragic past. He knew that the man drank, and didn’t believe in much that did not happen in front of his own nose. But this was not the basis of a good relationship - they could end up wanting to kill each other after a few months, nor were stunningly brown eyes and toned biceps a good indicator of compatibility.

“Look. You’ve known this guy for two days. There’s no need to rush things. Of course there will be complications if you two get… involved. But perhaps that’s getting a bit far ahead of ourselves? Spend some time with him, maybe become his friend first? Then if you both feel the same way, you can talk about what comes next. Reasonable?”

“Logical, even.”

Combeferre sighed. “There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere, isn’t there? I can see it in your face.”

“But we might have almost kissed this morning?” Enjolras swore Combeferre almost lost his eyebrow with the speed in which he raised it.

“’we’? or was this a one-sided thing?”

Enjolras blushed harder. If it was anyone but Combeferre he would have fled the room by now. “I think it was both.” He hoped it was both, at least.

“Well, my advice still stands. Get to know him first. And, if you’re feeling daring, let me meet him.”

Enjolras laughed. “Actually I had invited him to dine with us tonight, if that’s okay? Courfeyrac will be there.”

Combeferre shook his head at his friend’s enthusiasm. “Sounds splendid. Shall we go over the Nero plan? Or do you wish to sit around sighing and blushing like a young maiden some more?” He quickly ducked as Enjolras threw a scroll at him.

 

~

 

In the end, dinner was a surprisingly relaxing affair. There was a slight awkwardness that arose from having three couches and four people, but Combeferre gave Enjolras a look, and Courfeyrac gave Grantaire a push, and the two ended up on the same couch. It wasn’t that they weren’t big enough for two people, it just felt a bit too _intimate_ for two people who had known each other for two days and yet had nearly kissed that morning.

But the meal went splendidly after that and Enjolras found himself relaxing as Grantaire told some story about a boyhood adventure with a horse and a blackberry tart, of all things. By the end of it, all three of them were shaking with laugher, and encouraging him to tell more tales. Courfeyrac wanted some wine about half way through, and the slave brought some in. Grantaire declined with a smile and a sideways glance to Enjolras, who wondered what it meant.  He leant over.

“You could have a drink, you know, don’t let me stop you.”

“Oh, I know. And if I wanted one I most certainly would, good client or not” Grantaire replied, with a smile. And it was true, too. It had been hard to kick the habit before, eventually only stopping when his money ran out and he was on the road. It was a hard few days, more than once he almost stole the dark liquid, but ultimately worth it. He felt the urge to drink, but not the burning need as before. It didn’t stop the pursuit being pleasurable in its own right, and one he was more than willing to enjoy.

They kept swapping stories as the night wore on and Grantaire felt happier than he had been since his family died. It was catharsis, of a sort, being here amongst people who were on the verge of becoming his fast friends. He liked Courfeyrac easy-going attitude, and Combeferre’s sharp mind and dry wit. And he liked Enjolras’ kind nature, despite his posturing on propriety, and its weird connection to overthrowing the emperor. He leaned back against the couch contentedly, and allowed his arm to reach over and drape along the edge to play with the soft golden hairs at the nape of the other man’s neck. Enjolras smiled and leaned back into the ministrations, ignoring Combeferre’s persistent eyebrow and  Courfeyrac’s glee.

Eventually none of them could stop yawning, and Combeferre suggested that they retire for the night.

“Will you be staying with us the night?” Asked Enjolras.

“My house isn’t far from yours, and it’s not that late. I’d better go.”

“I think after last night I’d better sleep in my own bed. The slaves will worry if I don’t; Natalia, particularly, is worse than a mother hen.”

They laughed.

“Okay” said Enjolras. “I’ll see you to the door? The slave gets cranky if I wake him up too late at night.”

The three of them walked through the atrium, bidding their goodbyes to Grantaire before doing so. Combeferre smiled and they reached out and clasped each other’s forearms. “I like him” Combeferre confessed.

“Me too” chipped in Courfeyrac.

“You’ll like anyone who will drink with you” he replied.

“It’s a wonder why I like you lot then, isn’t it?” Enjolras gave him a light push on the arm.

“I’m glad you guys do” he confessed. “I wouldn’t have done anything if you didn’t.”

Courfeyrac leant over and kissed his cheek, just like he had done to Grantaire the previous night, electing a soft laugh from all present. After a final goodbye, they were on their way.

Enjolras turned around to find Grantaire hovering in the doorway to his _cubicula._ He smiled and walked over.

“They like you.” He offered.

“I like them too.” There was a moment of hesitation before a now all-too-familiar blush spread across his cheeks. “I wish you could meet my friends too.”

“I would like that.”

The silence that followed was awkward as they cast around for something further to say. There was a promise in the air, and it made Enjolras feel braver than he was.

“Uh. Would you like to see the _hortus_?”

Grantaire’s eyes widened in surprise.  “Really? You haven’t let me into the tablinium yet.”

That was a good point, Enjolras decided. “Well… there hasn’t been a reason to. We’ve only done business on the first day, and you were a stranger then.”

“You do realise that was yesterday, right?”

‘I know.”

 “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Enjolras turned to lead him to the garden. He quickly turned back and grabbed Grantaire’s hand.

“Come with me. There are a few flowers that bloom in the moonlight. It’s quite beautiful.”

Grantaire made a noise of agreement and allowed himself to be led. Truth be told, it wasn’t exactly hard to find, considering that Roman houses were essentially a long corridor with small rooms leading off it, but it was nice to feel a smooth hand in his.

The garden was spectacular, just as was promised. A large pool was surrounded by a variety of bushes and small trees. There were flowers, also as promised, and the back wall of the garden was painted to resemble a lush forest. It was almost as if he could keep walking forever. Smooth columns with Corinthian capitols surrounded the pool, and ‘held up’ the edge of the roof to create a small shaded walkway. Grantaire looked around in wonder for a while before something in the back of his mind clicked.

“What about the painting? The one which was in my dream?”

Enjolras pointed to a spot further along the wall, partially hidden by a wall of hanging shrubbery.

Grantaire felt a tiny bit of trepidation as he moved closer to where the painting would be. When he saw it, he doubled over with laughter.

“That’s not a winged lion, that’s a boar.”

“What? Course it’s a lion.”

“Since when did lions have tusks?”

“Since when did boars catch fish?”

“Since when did either of the two have wings?”

They were laughing now. Enjolras sobered up and put his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Did you really expect to be the same as in your dream?”

 Grantaire looked slightly embarrassed. “It led me here, didn’t it?”

 “That night, last night… you called me Apollo. What did you mean by that?”

“Besides blasphemy?” He looked down, biting his lip. “It’s just that Apollo is supposed to look like the most beautiful god. And the god of prophecy and… the god of healing. When you touched me that night, when you guided me into bed I felt… safe. Safe from the worry of who was going to die next, safe from the grief of my families death, safe from poverty, safe from--“ He looked into Enjolras’ eyes. “Safe from loneliness, too. It felt like you healed a part of me that I didn’t think could be healed. When I was watching my mother die, all I could believe in was that dream. I lost faith even in the gods. But that one tiny little shred of faith that I had left led me here. Prophecy or not.”

 “I don’t want you here as my client.” Enjolras confessed, moving his hands up to frame Grantaire’s face.

“Then what do you want me as?” Grantaire smiled his voice low.

“I-“ Grantaire had been honest with him, right? “I’m not sure. This is new. _You’re_ new. But I want something from you. Something long term. And rather frowned upon.” He finished with a breathless laugh.

‘Do you care?”

“Do I care about what?”

“That it’s frowned upon?”

“No.”

The conviction in his voice sent a shiver down Grantaire’s spine.  “Okay.” There was another pause, similar to the one that had occurred that morning in Enjolras’ bed chamber. Grantaire decided to just go for it. He licked his lips.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?”

Enjolras gave the biggest smile that Grantaire had ever seen on him. “Yes” he said. Combeferre’s advice can rot with Pluto.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fauces - Narrow foyer leading into the house  
> Atrium - Central reception area  
> tabernae - one room shops, off the atrium  
> compluvium - opening in the roof which lets in sunlight and rain water  
> cubicula - sleeping cubicles/ bedrooms  
> tablinium - home office  
> triclinium - dining room  
> klinai - couches  
> hortus - the garden at the rear of the house.  
> balnea - local bath house - often had motel-like functions  
> Decumanus - main street running east-west
> 
> Note: Whilst Cannon/Movie Enjolras would 100% not keep a slave, slavery was different in Roman times, and he would be very well looked after. It was also a major social convention, like the large fancy house, that Enjolras was not happy with, but kept to, so that he could keep his social power. It's my headcannon that he offered one of the shops to the slave, so that he could earn his freedom, but the slave refused, as living like this was easier (and knowing Enjolras, guaranteed retirement). Nevertheless, Enjolras wrote it into his will that the slave should be freed along with a hefty sum of money.


End file.
